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Charles Manson love

pooh

thai bumfights

“Free sessions are held twice a week at Aima maternity hospital in Shandong province and about 100 men have signed up to be tortured. Most are expectant dads but there are thrill seekers too among the volunteers for ‘taster sessions.'”

  • Speaking of signing up to be tortured, the McKamey Manor is still continuing their extreme haunt experience past Halloween. Russ keeps saying he is toning shit down but this last video is creepier than the ones in the last post. Two tough guys dressed as the Super Mario Bros end  up throwing up and crying after 20 minutes! Also note the reference to Vegas. Russ live streams the haunts to unknown people in Vegas! You really need to watch this:

And just in case you haven’t been on the internet in the past month:

Until next time Bizarros!

Flash Fiction Friday: Dotting the Is

by Cornell R. Nichols

I’m not quite sure how it happened but, at the age of thirty, I found myself stuck in a dead-end job, with virtually no prospects for my dead-end life.

I guess my ideas were to blame. I have foolishly dared to dream of becoming a journalist, and so I went to college and started to get accustomed to writing daily. I would roll a sheet of paper onto the platen, push the buttons of my typewriter, slide the carriage return with a satisfying ding and then, orthpen in hand, correct my own paragraphs with zero tolerance. I repeated this ritual tirelessly, producing article after article on the most mundane topics:

Mischievous Laundry Escapes Yard!
Neighbor’s Zombie Breaks Off Leash, Eats Mailbox
or
Snail Farmers Complain: Economy Is Slug-Slow.

Write, revise, correct, write, revise, correct…

In the end, the corrector’s mind was all that I was left with while journeying to Job Land. I was hired by the local printing company at the lowest position possible.

The Boss said to me from the very start: “Mr. Pointe, this company is all about cost-cutting. At this point, we regularly print pamphlets, political manifestos for the Order of the Grammar Neo-Nazis, several books of ill-circulation; but nothing that would bring us humongous heaps of hay. Am I making myself clear?”

I took a look at his nose prosthesis, very crude, just a snowman-style carrot, and I realized that he wasn’t lying. At least his nose didn’t grow or anything.

“Got it, Boss.”

“And because of this financial predicament our main printing press has been bought at, shall we say, a bargain price. It is a tad retarded and forgets to dot. Your job, Mr. Pointe, will be to place said dots, or tittles if you like, wherever they are missing from the text. Here’s your desk, sit down and tittle away!”

And so I became the company tittler. The pay was irrational, and as such could be represented by the irrational number pi—$3.14 an hour. But I didn’t complain. I did not dare to. After all, it isn’t easy finding a job after college. I was glad I was getting any pay at all. So day after day I would dot and tittle like a human dot-and-tittle machine, searching out every lonesome “i” and “j” with the blade of the orthpen, taking particular care of the Order’s orders. I once saw a Grammar Neo-Nazi slice a man in half with a claymore just for using “who” instead of “whom”. I even wrote an article about it: For Whom The Bell Tolls.

But now, knee-deep in work-mud, I had no time for writing light news. Dot, dot, dot, dot—eight hours, dot, per day not counting, dot, the overtime. And ending several hours late became, dot, something of a regular thing. Especially when the printing company managed to keep its head above the water and more and more orders started to come like an ink tsunami. Dot.

And so one day, almost a year after I was hired, the Boss paid me another visit. By then he was already wearing a diamond-encrusted ivory nose, very pointy and chic.

“Mr. Pointe,” he said, “we’re expanding rapidly. It’s still a tightrope walk, so no chance for a raise, don’t even ask. But you will receive a bit more work, I’m afraid.”

“How big a bit are we talking?” I dared ask.

“Not a big one, not big at all,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “We just bought a few more fonts for our dear special Printy, that’s all.”

The new fonts were for publications in German. They were dot-less and tittle-less, of course, meaning they had no umlaut diacritics. Not only did I have to double-dot those foreign vowels, twice the work, but I also had to know where they actually go. I spoke German only so lala, so I had to constantly ask the typesetter guy which of the signs were plus-umlaut and which ones I should just leave as they were.

Such a long time did I have to spend at work, that my eight-hour day became the twelve-hour one, no breaks. Not a single moment was left to polish my newspaper articles.

And meanwhile, the Boss Man concocted a new entertainment for my delight: math textbooks.

Now I would tittle dawn to dusk. I sweated over the symbols and hieroglyphics: “multiplied by”, “divided by”, “therefore”, “such that”. I stabbed at the paper imagining it to be the noseless face of my Boss. Every pi in every circle reminded me of the pitiful pay, of the lack of life outside of work; of my long-forgotten articles. What was I thinking, for Dot’s sake, wanting to become a journalist? I should have majored in tittling! Maybe they would teach me how to avoid writer’s cramp? Maybe with the master’s degree in Advanced Dot-Making I would get paid a bit more than $3.14 (tax not included)? I started asking around if anyone’s heard of any decent tittling courses but people just took me for a wacko.

I was alone. Misunderstood. The only tittler in the whole wide world, breaking his back over another dot-less publication: dot, dot, dot, dot…

Until one day he appeared at my desk again, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. The Tyrant, the Belze-Boss. The stingy bastard with a nose of priceless antimatter.

“My dear Mr. Pointe, I just had the most brilliant idea ever, period!” he declared with his usual amount of modesty. His voice resonated inside the magnetic trap that was holding the prosthesis together. “Have you ever heard of a French painter, one Georges Seurat?”

I shook my head. The only painter I knew well enough was Albrecht Dürer, and that’s only because I was in the process of tittling his three-volume zombiography. The wretched thing was written entirely in third person—Dürer this, Dürer that—as if to spite me. I punctured the pages over the undead scribbler’s name picturing nails being hammered to his coffin.

“Who’s this Seurat, Boss?” Dot. Dot.

“Well, he was this genius pointillist, which basically means he created paintings… yes, you guessed it, out of dots only! I was just visiting the National Gallery with my wife and I thought to myself: ‘What is a text if not just a collection of close-knit dots?’ Why, every shape in the universe is made out of a finite number of points! You know what this means, right? Illustrations, we can dot them out as well! Isn’t this absolutely marvelous? A revolution! The entire work of a printing company in the hands of a single worker. No need for some half-retarded machine. Think how much money I can save thanks to that!” he exclaimed, delighted.

The mention of money sprung me into action, as if I were stabbed with the tip of my own orthpen.

“And how big of a raise are we talking about here, Boss? To go along with this promotion?” I asked, fingers twitching with hope. “After all, I will be responsible for the entire company, no?”

The Boss smiled apologetically and explained to me, point by point, that, unfortunately, blah, blah, blah, the savings need to be, blah, blah. Only due to the patience acquired at work, did I manage not to get arrested that day for the assault with a deadly three-volume Grammar Neo-Nazi nightmare and for gory orthpen-rape.

The next morning I tittled out my letter of resignation. It was short, straight to the point and featured a pointillist caricature of the Boss as a noseless goblin, with carrots sticking out of his ass.

Then I found a job at the local tattoo parlor. Here, for an entire day of dot-dot-dotting butterflies and hearts, they pay me hundred times more.

——

Cornell R. Nichols usually writes in his native tongue but words like “chrząszcz” and “gżegżółka” are slightly too extreme even for the bizarro crowd. Due to the miracle of translation, his real name can mean “Horny Santa’s Little Helper”. He supports the cause of the snail farmers.

Flash Fiction Friday: Martian Funeral

by Craig A. Buckley

The good Rev. Johnny Elwood loosened his tie. His black Sunday jacket lay draped over the chair behind his desk. His wife would have been in a tizzy if she’d seen it. That’s what hangers were invented for, Johnny, she’d say, to keep out the wrinkles. That woman and her damn hangers. Damn damn damn. The Reverend loved that word. Damned be the sinners, he’d preach, and damned be the papist idolaters, damned be the whores and dope smoking Commies down at the college, and damned be his wife’s damn hangers.

And damned be his wife, for that matter. You see another cock in your wife’s mouth (dragged into Sodom with salted limbs) and you get a fire in the blood. Only one way to put out that sort of fire. His whiskey sermon that morning had hit his congregation hard. He knew it. They’d be coming to ask questions. The elders would want a meeting. He’d be asked to resign, perhaps, or at least take a sabbatical for a bit. Maybe just a transfer, like when a Mary-worshipping dandy fingered the wrong rich kid.

Damn them all then, if they wanted to hold deaf ears up to his voice. They couldn’t put it from their minds now. His words would grow like a virus in their moist, spongy minds. Yes. He’d always thought viruses were interesting, word viruses especially. When you’re the good Reverend, you get to hear a lot of what’s on the peoples’ minds. Doesn’t take a doctorate in psychology to realize that most people think what you tell them to think. They just reiterate their programming in words that they understand and call that thinking. Thinking, now that’s what Johnny needed to do. Sit and have a nice long think. Not here though. They’d be coming soon and he wasn’t in a mind for visitors.

He threw his tie onto his jacket. Took his shoes off too, socks even. The window of his first story office looked out on the church picnic area, a small clearing in a copse of oaks. He opened the window and, with some shifting and squirming, climbed out. The grass was still wet from the storm that morning. Had he called that storm down with his words? Or was God just punctuating his sermon for him with those big, booming thunder blasts? Well, he supposed that was all in how you looked at it. There were days when he saw God in every fart. Then, however, there were days when the devil drove. No use denying it. The Rev. wouldn’t have been a man if the devil didn’t have some sort of reign on him. And Rev. Johnny Elwood knew himself to be a man, no doubt about it.

He saw the devil’s wings clearer now than ever, beating about his ears. He walked silently on bare feet, pacing slowly through the trees, pinching up the earth with his toes. When it started to rain again, he looked up. There sat Earl Jennings in his pickup, just looking at him. Probably praying to himself, the fucking asshole. Johnny walked right up to the window, knocked as if Earl hadn’t seen him coming.

“Hey there, Rev. Elwood. Quite a sermon today.” Johnny smiled a big, stupid smile for the old man but only for a moment before returning to his stone face. Earl looked away, cleared his throat and said, “Johnny, get on in, let’s go for a drive. Get on out of the rain, son. Come on now. Gonna catch cold like that.”

Johnny got in and they drove out of the parking lot.

“Well, Johnny…well…what in the heck is going through your mind that you went and did a fool thing like preach that sermon back there? Huh? You ain’t feeling alright, son? You ain’t drinking are you? Drugs? Been at one of them ungodly youth conferences, hopped up on dope without knowing it? Huh Johnny? I know you. I pray for you every night, Reverend. You are a good man and a good preacher. Just talk to me, son, and we’ll get this figured out.”

Johnny looked Earl up and down. “You don’t know shit, you brittle old fuck.”

“I beg your pardon, Reverend?”

“You heard me, Earl. The only thing you know about dick is shit. It’s all any of us can know. The universe is bigger than our minds can conceive. Vastly bigger. Are you so vain to think you think the thoughts of the Lord, Earl?”

“Now, I never said that, Johnny. I don’t even rightly know what you’re getting at. All I know is, you need to think about these things you’re saying. You’re the shepherd of the church. We can’t have people saying that our reverend has lost his-” Earl winced.

“Lost my mind, have I Earl? Tell me, why might you think that?”

“Well…well, Johnny, I don’t know too many sane men who would stand up before their congregation, a congregation that has done nothing but support you, remember, and…and spout that nonsense you were spouting about…aliens and saucers and sodomites from the moon…”

“Mars. Sodomites from Mars, Earl. They were very clear about that.”

“Mars, the moon, whatever.”

“No, motherfucker, not whatever. An invasion from the moon would not involve the ritual sodomizing of the mouth of the consort of a high priest of Tiphareth. The moon is a feminine sphere, not a masculine, aggressive planet, Earl.”

Earl was silent for some time before saying, “You see what I mean, Johnny? We had to bring Widow Collins back with salts after you got to yelling about Christ being a…a hermaphrodite from the sun.”

“The deaf ears of my sheep! Earl, you’re a goddamned elder in the church. Don’t you do no reading on your own? Everybody knows that about Christ. It’s common knowledge on most planets.”

Earl sighed. “This is about Wendy, ain’t it? She messed around on you, didn’t she. Drove you crazy. I’ve seen it before.”

“You’ve seen it, have you? You saying my wife sucked your cock, Earl? You watched her suck a cock on the internet? She sucks all the cocks, every one of ‘em?”

“Oh no, don’t go saying things like that, Johnny, getting mad at me. Turning my words around. You know you’re just being contrary, now.”

Johnny sighed.

“You’re right, Earl. I’m sorry. I know Wendy wouldn’t suck an old man’s dick. She only sucks goddamn space-cold grey Martian cock these days.”

Earl drove on silently.

“She’s pregnant. I can feel it in the vibrations. Brain pregnant. Bad case. Martian gestation is 23 months, if I ain’t mistaken. Gonna take her life when it comes, no doubt. Be a whole new Martian Christ this time. Horus spreading his wings now, Earl, I can hear it. None of this shit’s gonna matter in 23 months. Fuck Widow Collins. Fuck the congregation, fuck the church, and fuck you, Earl. A new age dawns and I don’t mean to be resistant to the waves of annihilation, no sir. I aim to ride ‘em right to the throne.”

“Johnny, we’re gonna get you some help, son. You just hang on tight. We’re gonna get you some help.”

“They’re gonna need preachers in the next Aeon, you better believe it. A lot of death coming, Earl. A lot of you old, stagnant minds gonna be wiped clean and returned to the soil. For nutrients. For the trees. Martians love their trees. That’s why they’re always snatching people from the middle of nowhere. Martian can’t stand the city. Gotta be green. Skulls make the best fertilizer.”

“Lord in Heaven, please take from your child, Johnny Elwood, these demons that pervert his thoughts from your Will, oh Lord.”

“Lotta death coming. Lotta men gonna need burying. Lotta Martians too, I suppose. Boy, they’re in for a ride, I tell you what. Think they can implant a New Martian Christ on Earth and we’ll all just bow down and worship. Well, the sheep whose eyes I stare down every damn Sunday probably will, but not everybody. Muslims gonna be up in arms about this one. Buddhists ain’t worship shit anyway. Martians are taking a big chance, picking Christ to replace.”

“Almost there, Johnny. Gonna get you help. You just hang on.”

xxx

Time ticks by on the big wall clock in the common room of the sanitarium. Johnny hears every click of the second hand, counting down to the New Earth. He sits calmly (the calmer the better. Avoiding the drugs. Sitting calmly, silently, breathing slowly, not moving a muscle, listening to the waves of the Void crashing against his mind.) For 23 months he sits in white pajamas, serene. And the final day comes ‘round: click-click-click-click-click- – – – – – -

xxx

“This is not the end, my brothers and sisters. The Lord has raised this dear woman to sin against humanity and we in our ignorance believe these sins to be universal, requiring forgiveness in the name of Jesus Christ. We are blind to the new light which shines even now from the gaping forehead wound of my once beloved wife. And yet even she shall be remembered in eternity, for from her cephalic womb crawls even now a new Sun God, tempered in the severity of Mars, to be taken soon to the merciful halls of Jupiter to be raised until strong enough to return to our dear Earth as the Savior Image of the New Aeon. Replace your filters, those of you with ears to hear. You will need new thoughts in your head. Replace the goose step of the old world with the dervish dance of a united Solar System. Those among you that draw weapons on our Martian space brothers incite civil war, I say! Lay down your arms, for they are the lions and we the lambs and by the streams of Chaos do we take our rest, together, in the shade of the tree of life. And by Chaos are we set free, brothers and sisters! Those who stagnate and homogenize will be left behind. We shall build a ladder to the stars on the bones of your lost ideals. I see now that it was right in the eyes of the Lord for our Martian space brothers to come down like frozen lightning, fuck the truth of the Word into the mind of my wife, harvest the fetus of the Future King from her rotting, twisted body and to steal away in the night with the Christ, just as Mary and Joseph stole away to Egypt to raise Jesus in the land of ancient magick. He shall return, the Son of Marsman. And then shall we know the peace of the storm, the quiet that comes with death, the eternal silence of the Abyss. Prepare your hearts, you that have the Spirit. Prepare your hearts for His return. As we commit the body of your servant back to the rowdy dirt, Oh Lord, please free her mind of all transitory hallucinations and let her spirit inhabit the Pure Land that she might be free of the wheel of creation. She has done enough, Oh Lord, and I defy you to raise her once again from her eternal rest. I go now, like John the Baptist before me, to wander the wastes and commune with those things beyond the rational sphere of civilization. If I meet the spirit of my wife, Oh Lord, I promise to strike her down, deep down, into the hell of the anti-gods, where even You will not be able to reach her. A new age dawns and I am the harbinger of the coming light. We are all gods now. Amen.”

—-

Craig A. Buckley wanders around hills of Kentucky, talking to trees, in an everlasting attempt to be abducted by weirdos. Sometimes he sits around Cincinnati, giving norms the cunt eye, picking dirt from his beard.

Show Me Your Shelves: Chris Kelso

Chris Kelso is one of those dudes who’s simultaneously likable and hard to love. Sure, he’s easy to get along with and always has a smile on his face, but then you read his books and you go “Fuck this guy, I wish I’d written this.” Oh, and he’s also ridiculously prolific and has a presence here in the US despite living in some faraway land known as Glasgow. In any case, he has a new book out, so I thought it was time to ask him some questions and get him to me me his shelves. Here’s what he had to say.

GI: Who are you and what role do books play in your life?

CK: I’m Chris Kelso, a dress-wearing polyglot savant who lives in the Highlands. Books play a crucial part in my life and have done since I was about 14. You can imagine how difficult it was for a remarkably unpopular teenager in parochial Ayrshire to find happiness and contentment. I started throwing myself into books – comics at first then I progressed to distinguished works of fiction soon after. It provided me with, and continues to provide me with, an extreme form of escapism – although my relationship with books, the role they play and the act of reading itself has changed slightly since I embarked upon a ‘writing career’ because recently I feel like I only read to learn my craft, to take notes and to develop as a writer. When I think about it, maybe I don’t read for just so much for escapism these days, which might be quite sad (not that I don’t still take some pleasure from reading).

 photo kelso1.jpg

GI: You’ve published a lot so far and you’re still a young cat. Are there any other hungry youngsters out there who you’d recommend to folks who dig your work?

CK: There are a lot. Most of the writers I know are young cats, I mean Max Booth III is 21 or something! I mean Jesus Christ! I think Preston Grassman, Jason Wayne Allen, Grant Wamack and Michael Allen Rose are all great, Rob Harris is great, Gabino – you’re great. In the other European countries Konstantine Paradias and Michael Faun are both young and hungry and brilliant. Love Kolle can spin a cool yarn too. They write smart transgressive fiction and will, without a doubt, forge long, prestigious careers for themselves.

GI: Is it hard selling books to folks in the US when you’re all the way in Glasgow? How’s the beer over there?

CK: It’s hard selling books anywhere to be honest. People in the US are actually a lot more responsive to my style of nihilistic nonsense than folks in Scotland. I really don’t sell a lot – fortunately the beer over here is radioactive horse piss that gets you good and lousy drunk.

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GI: Best stuff you’re read so far in 2014, go!

CK: I’m enjoying Matt Bialer’s epic poem “Ascent” right now, but there are a dozen others I loved. “Time Pimp” by Garrett Cook is up there amongst my favourites with all the golden oldies I raced through this year, like Paul Auster’s “New York Trilogy” and Koestler’s “Darkness at Noon.” I also picked up Leopold Von Sacher Masoch’s classic “Venus in Furs” which I really related to. Actually, I had the pleasure of reading an early proof of Seb Doubinsky’s “WHITE CITY” which is coming out next year…but it’s a cracker!

GI: What’s in this new collection of yours and why should everyone go buy it the second they’re done with this interview?

CK: “Terence, Mephisto and Viscera Eyes is a collection of stories set within the Slave State. This is a much more measured and mature effort from me (at least I think so anyway!). There’s a story called ‘Baptizm of Fire’ in there that deals with a dystopian Lagos and the Slave State’s silent puppeteering of the Nigerian University confraternities. It’s much more melancholy than my usual stuff, it has much more heart – which was completely my intention. People should by it because I need to sell books…and I’m a real nice guy…

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Gabino Iglesias is a writer, journalist, and book reviewer living in Austin, TX. He’s the author ofGutmouth and a few other things no one will ever read. You can find him on Twitter at@Gabino_Iglesias

Flash Fiction Friday: The Case of the Already-Solved Case

by Douglas Hackle

When Mrs. Eleanor Henderson called upon me—Douglas Hackle, Licensed Private Investigator—to solve the case of her husband’s murder, the case had been closed for over three years.

On June 4, 2009, Mrs. Henderson’s husband, Gregory, was killed by a chainsaw-wielding maniac named Dizzy-o Parcheezy on a busy street in downtown Dapperchild, Illinois. The victim had been on his lunch break and walking back to his office, a bag of Taco Bell in hand, when Parcheezy stepped out from an alley and chopped the man’s head off with a chainsaw. Parcheezy proceeded to leisurely cut up the rest of Henderson’s body right there on the busy sidewalk in broad daylight in front of hundreds of onlookers, many of whom recorded it using their cell phones. When he was done cutting Henderson into bits, Parcheezy strolled on over to the nearby Dapperchild First Precinct Police Station and turned himself in, confessing to the crime.

Parcheezy was convicted of first-degree murder eight months later and sentenced to life in prison, avoiding the death penalty by pleading guilty by reason of batshit-insanity.

An open-and-shut case if there ever was one.

But that hadn’t stopped the widow Henderson from calling me nearly four years after the fact, asking me to solve the murder.

“Um, ma’am,” I’d said, trying to be polite, “you do know that the killer turned himself in right after he murdered your husband, right? He was convicted and imprisoned for life.”

“Yes, I know,” the woman said through her sobs. “But I don’t care! I want you to solve my husband’s murder!”

“But, ma’am. There’s, like, nothing to solve. Justice has already been served, ma’am.”

“I don’t care. Please find the man who killed my husband and bring him to justice! I’ll pay handsomely. How does five hundred thousand smackeroonies sound to you?”

I wasn’t exactly in a position where I could turn down a cool half mil. Know what I’m sayin’, sauce? I mean, is anyone in that position? So never mind that the gig didn’t make a lick of fucking sense. I needed that money. Bad. See, I had literally hundreds of illegitimate children scattered throughout the country and hundreds of angry my-babies’-mamas sending lawyers after me to get me to cough up a king’s ransom in child support every month.

So I took the case, yo.

***

I had a friend on the Dapperchild police force who agreed to pull the Henderson case file for me. I planned on examining it with my jumbo-sized private eye magnifying glass to see if I could find any clues. Only problem was I was out in the burbs, and I needed to get all the way downtown to meet him at the police station, which necessitated me driving my car. Unfortunately, the tags on my beat-up ’96 Chrysler Sebring convertible were expired. In order to renew my registration and get new tags, I was obliged to go to the E-Check station and have my car tested.

So I waited in the long line at the E-Check station for two miserable hours before finally pulling up into the building to be served.

“Please exit your vehicle, sir, and step over to the waiting area,” a grumpy female inspector garbed in grease-stained coveralls said. “The test will take about two minutes.”

I did as instructed, grabbing my chainsaw before I climbed out of my shitbox car. (I generally kept a chainsaw on my person just as a security precaution, as I couldn’t afford a proper handgun at the time, what with all that child support I was doling out every month.)

A hot dame—the customer ahead of me—was sitting inside the glass-enclosed waiting area. I sat on the bench across from her, setting my chainsaw down next to me. She looked up from her InTouch magazine. I smiled, winked my left peeper, which happened to contain a fiber-optic implant that twinkled whenever I winked at someone, like a movie star’s eye. The vixen pulled a sour face, rolled her eyes, and shook her head to indicate she was not impressed before returning her attention to her magazine.

A minute later, the inspector walked into the room, handed the woman a printout and said, “You’re all set. Your vehicle passed.” Then the inspector turned to me. “Sorry, sir. But your vehicle did not pass.”

“Whaddaya mean it didn’t pass?” I asked.

“Do you speak English?” the inspector said, all mean and snarky. “Your. Vehicle. Did. Not. Pass. We all drive Es nowadays. Your vehicle failed the E-Check because it’s not an E, you moron. Oh, and by the way, your shitty car’s engine just blew up.”

“We all drive Es nowadays?” I asked in confusion. “What are you talking about, toots? I thought the E-Check was to test vehicle emissions.”

Both dames started laughing at me.

So I looked out the window. Sure enough, the “vehicle” in front of mine—the one belonging to the dame—was a big, white, three-dimensional letter E about nine feet wide and twelve feet tall. Like the plaything of a Godzilla-sized Kindergartener. A ladder bolted to the E’s side led up to a roof, where a steering wheel was affixed to an exposed, slanted steering column like on a dune buggy. Also attached to the roof were two upholstered carlike seats. I glanced over to the right to see a procession of identical Es queued outside the station, all mounted by drivers who were no doubt feeling just as impatient as I’d felt while waiting in that damn line.

“Oh, yeah?” I said, now angry as hell as I leaned down to pull the start rope on my chainsaw. It fired up on the first pull. “Well, take this you man-hating, bra-burning, slutty, slut-shaming, femi-nazi SLUT!” I said as I spun around and chopped the inspector’s head clean off.

The dame sprung up from the bench with a horrified gasp, and we both stared down at the decapitated body for moment, watching it bleed out onto the floor.

SMACK!

The dame slapped me hard across the face.

“That misogynistic comment you made offended me!” she said as she crossed her arms over the pair of luscious, grapefruit-like mounds concealed behind the tight blazer of her business suit.

“Hey, dollface, shouldn’t you be a little more offended by the fact that I just chopped somebody’s fucking head off?”

“Kiss me, you fool,” she blurted unexpectedly as she leaned in and smashed her lips against mine, one of her legs kicking back so that her high-heeled foot hung suspended in midair as we smooched, just like in the movies.

***

The inspector was right—my rust bucket had finally broken down for good. So the dame offered me a ride downtown.

We climbed the ladder on her E. She plopped down in the driver seat, I in the passenger seat. I’d never ridden on an E before. The thing didn’t appear to have wheels. It just sort of glided along the road like a sled. Everywhere around us people were driving identical Es. During the drive downtown, I did not spot a single car, truck, bus, or train.

Call me unobservant, but for whatever reason I had somehow failed to notice the apparent wholesale shift in transportation from automobiles to Es that had occurred at some point in time. See, each one of us has our own unique frame of reference. In our separate paths in life, we all come to learn or not learn completely different facts, truths, and bits of misinformation. But, goddamnit, if someone thinks it’s funny or pathetic that I missed this whole E thing, that someone can just say so to my fucking face, and that someone will find himself French kissing the buzzing blade of my goddamn, motherfucking 17.3-hp Leatherface special, goddamnit!

At any rate, it occurred to me during the ride that I didn’t need to see the Henderson case file. I already knew who the killer was. I also knew exactly where to find him. So I had the skirt drop me off at the nearby state penitentiary instead of the police station. She pulled up next to the towering barbed wire fence that girded the prison grounds and then demanded that I have sex with her as payment for the ride. We did the deed right there on top of the E.

Which turned out to be a big mistake, as I was to find out later that I impregnated her that day—and with quintuplets no less! Identical ones too. Five boys who looked exactly like me. Yup, that’s another five little Douglas Hackles crawling around on this miserable rock we call Earth, each of whom will undoubtedly grow up to be a blithering douchecanoe. And in the meantime, that’s another hefty child support check for me to mail out every month, goddamn it!

Anyhow, as I mounted the ladder to disembark the E, the dame called out, “Please don’t go! I love you, Douglas Hackle!!!”

I paused for a second and responded, “Pfft! You don’t love me. You just love my Douggie-Style,” and resumed my climb down.

After the dame glided away on her E, crying, I pulled out my magnifying glass and used it to concentrate the sun’s rays on the fence, just like I used to do to ants and leaves when I was a kid. Within minutes, I’d burned a hole big enough for me to climb through. Then I tried the magnifying glass trick on the reinforced concrete wall of the prison, to great success. Before long, I’d breached the four-foot-thick barrier and was inside the Big House, using my chainsaw to take out any sucka-ass prison guards unlucky enough to get in my way as I pushed deeper and deeper into the cellblocks in search of Dizzy-o Parcheezy until eventually I found his skinny, batshit-crazy ass jerking off in his cell.

I busted him out and delivered him forthwith to the First Precinct, where I informed the police that I’d captured the notorious Dizzy-o Parcheezy—cold-blooded murderer of Gregory Henderson—and that now they could finally bring him to justice.

The cops dragged Parcheezy away, but they dragged me away too.

I used my one phone call to inform the widow Henderson that I had solved the already-solved case.

Not a year later, I was tried and convicted for multiple chainsaw murders, breaking a convicted murderer out of prison, failure to make my child support payments, slut-shaming, slut-shaming-shaming (the crime of shaming slut-shamers), misogyny, misandry, misanthropy, anvil-shaming, chair-shaming, paperclip-shaming, burning ants with a magnifying glass when I was a kid, and a host of other infractions of the law. I plead guilty to all counts by reason of batshit-insanity and received twenty consecutive life sentences in a federal maximum-security prison.

Another open-and-shut case if there ever was one.

Nevertheless, I still hired Dizzy-o Parcheezy (he was released from prison on parole a few months ago and now works as a licensed P.I.) to figure out who the hell broke him out of jail and to find out if Douglas Hackle is even alive.

Word in the slammer is that Parcheezy has a bigger magnifying glass than mine and a bigger cock to boot. If he solves the case, I promised him I’d give him the half million dollars I earned from the Henderson case, but he said all he wants in return is a chance to surf the tops of palm trees in a Model-T Ford driven by a hardscrabble vagabond with a foretaste for mythopoetic, snappish, sentient anvils held in thrall of a Prussian-Arabian fetal polar bear in the pink of health via a Kierkegaardian karate class-warfare unwitnessed by the unsung, fretful fugue-frogs of protean pear-bears par excellence thwarting the seventeen ontological tip-taps of post-Krull, pre-Ratt Malay$ia-Kentucky if by the sdfdjasklfjdskl-ajfasfskdlajfklsjdafkljdsak lfdsklaf klsdajfklds jaklfjdask lfsdamfkljsaklf jdskl ajfklsjdafklfdsafdsklafjdlsafjs kdlajfd lsajfldsafdsafdsdjsio rjn3e9u5t243t89 &*(24umv89 hjwi9ogijfeowgjwegiorje %^&*etrklpsdfdsafds a&*(@$#? $?$?$?$?$?$?$?$?$?$?$?$?

____

Douglas Hackle is the author of CLOWN TEAR JUNKIES (Rooster Republic Press), a collection of bizarro/absurdist short stories. Hershel and Joffrey are hawt!!! TERROR MAN. TERROR FACE. TERROR CLOWN. TERROR CHILD. TERROR MAN. TERROR FACE. TERROR CLOWN. TERROR CHILD. TERROR HOUSE. TERROR SHARK. TERROR MOUSE. La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fuck Yeah Halloween! Bizarro Photoblast and Spooky Video!

skeletons

It’s Dia de Los Muertos already, I was too busy getting wasted and putting on zombie makeup to make a post on Halloween proper but here’s my belated Halloween gift to you. A bombardment of creepy pics!

You should play this song while viewing them.

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Armin cannibal

arms

bunny crepy corey feldman

scarecrow

dicks

eyes

face skew

face ghost corner giant spider mom goat head hang shadow tumblr_n5kv9zeMTT1r4xqamo1_500 head mummified jailedcreepy kid

Bonus: My friend sent me this awesome video for Halloween that another friend described as a “horror snuff film.” This should have been V/H/S Viral instead of that crap it ended up being. It’s creepy and has some hot sex!

Hope you had an amazing Halloween and enjoyed this year’s Halloween Chaos Countdown. What did you dress up as?

Flash Fiction Friday: Super Fun Dance Time

by Brian Auspice

Hamstring lies in a hospital bed. Tubes feed out of his right arm into a large 1970’s mainframe computer. He watches his blood slowly get sucked through the plastic. The computer beeps. A nurse walks in. She places a stereo on a nearby table.

“The doctor will see you now,” she says. She opens a utility cabinet, squeezes herself in, and closes the door behind her.

The doctor enters the room. He grabs a clipboard hanging from the edge of the bed. He reads it over. His expression becomes grave.

“This isn’t good,” he shakes his head. “No, no. This. Is. Not. Good. Simply not good.”

“What is it, doctor?” Hamstring asks.

“Hamstring is such a shitty name,” the doctor replies. He throws the clipboard out the window. It bursts into flames on the way down to the parking lot. It lands on a bus full of nuns and causes an explosion.

“Injuries!” the doctor cheers. The stereo blares techno. The nurse jumps out of the utility cabinet and runs over to the doctor. They hug, make out, fist-pump, and dance. The song ends. They put their hands to their sides. The nurse adjusts her hair.

“I’ll check on that for you,” she says. She leaves the room.

The doctor turns to Hamstring, “Now, Hamstring.”

“Yes, doctor?”

“I’m not going to call you Hamstring,” the doctor continues. “It’s such a shitty name. Your parents should be beaten. Or you should’ve been aborted. One or both. I don’t know. I don’t care. From now on, you are Kazoo.”

“My name’s not Kazoo,” Hamstring replies. “It’s Hamstring.”

The doctor laughs.

“Kazoo…Kazoo, Kazoo, Kazoo,” the doctor begins. “Listen, I’m the most qualified doctor on the planet – the Universe, actually – I’ve taken several online courses over a six-week period. And! And. I have a Masters in Communication. I even got it through the mail. Trust me. I know what’s best. You. Are. Kazoo.”

The computer beeps. It spits out seven-thousand sheets of paper. The doctor picks up the top page and pulls out a magnifying glass.

“It says here,” the doctor peers through the lens. “It says here you have a sore throat.”

The doctor drops the magnifying glass and smashes it with his foot.

“You know what that means, Kazoo?” the doctor asks.

Hamstring glances around the room, “N-no…?”

“Sickness!” the doctor cheers. He shreds the paper into a million pieces and tosses it into the air like confetti. The stereo blares techno. The nurse runs in and has sex with the doctor. They bump and grind and writhe on the floor. Squares of paper stick to their sweaty bodies. The doctor climaxes. The music stops. They stand up, hands at their sides.

The nurse turns to Hamstring, “You have a visitor.”

She fixes her hair.

“Doctor,” she says, performing a pirouette.

The doctor smacks her bottom.

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” he says. They walk out of the room together, their clothes in their arms.

Ten-million years go by. A visitor enters the room. Hamstring doesn’t recognize him.

“Sorry I’m late,” the visitor says. He is out of breath. “I got lost near the break room. I took a left when I should’ve taken a right and wound up in the catacombs beneath the hospital. You know they keep children down there? I even asked one of the nurses about it and she told me anyone who falls deathly ill before the age of ninety isn’t worth trying to save. So, I guess they just keep them where they’ll end up. Anyways. These are for you.”

The visitor pulls a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and holds them out. They immediately wilt. The visitor frowns and insta-rots. His carcass falls to the tile floor and explodes in a cloud of dust.

Hamstring rips the surgical tubing from his arm. He stands and wobbles slightly as he gains his balance. He awkwardly walks to the window. A vast desert stretches into the distance. A solitary sun sets fire to the world. Below, in the parking lot, tucked in the shallow spaces between the dunes, are rusted car frames. The remnant of an exploded bus is littered with a dozen skeletons. Hamstring turns and walks over to the stereo. He turns it on. Techno music begins to play. And Hamstring dances.

—-

Brian Auspice exists in an impermeable void between time and space. A gazebo entitled “Deep Blue” is being published by Eraserhead Press as part of their 2014 New Bizarro Author Series. 01001010 01101111 01101000 01101110 00100000 01110011 01110101 01100011 01100011 01110101 01101101 01100010 01110011 00101110 http://bauspice.wordpress.com

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